


somewhere a clock is ticking

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've got this feeling that there's something that I missed / I could do most anything to you</p><p>(Title from somewhere a clock is ticking - Snow Patrol)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. compass

“So, what’s happened to your infamous ‘inner compass’ then?”  
  
John’s eyebrows rise far into the anger lines forming on his forehead; he crosses his arms tight over his chest and turns slightly in the passenger seat, to watch the situation gloriously dawning across Sherlock’s face.  
  
Of course, it doesn’t so much _dawn_ as it does seep slowly and subtly into the rings of Sherlock’s eyes and the corners of his tightly set mouth. He says nothing as the rain throws itself against the windows of the Land Rover with increased spite, simply tightens his grip on the steering wheel until the fine leather of his gloves aches.  
  
“Take a day off, did it?” The doctor continues, shaking his head with a half-laugh of disbelief. “I had a map, Sherlock, with roads and directions and a _conveniently marked out route_ that we were _supposed_ to be following.”  
  
“It was in the way.” Sherlock replies finally, his voice steady and flat lined, a dismissive wave of his hand as he focuses his gaze more intently upon the swiftly disappearing road.  
  
Another huff - “Did you _really_ have to lob it out of the window, though?”  
  
John gives up on deciphering Sherlock’s expression and turns to watch the weather battering the car and the landscape around them. It’s March and the Peak District air is cold - which John would be fine with except _someone_ decided to hide/misplace/destroy/otherwise maim his lovely woollen jumper - so he tries a controlled shiver, which ends up more like a violent _shudder_.  
  
“You’re the _soldier_ John, don’t they train you for this sort of situation? Or did they keep you in a tent?” Sherlock almost hisses, eyes still straining to acclimatise to the thickening fog.  
  
There’s a fleeting lovely moment where the doctor thinks about just smacking him clean in the jaw. Except, Sherlock happens to be driving and John doesn’t much feel like dying today, especially not with the man sitting next to him. With a careful, slow drag of his tongue along his bottom lip he breathes, and continues to watch the endless country scape drift by.  
  
“Oh just _shut up and drive_.”  
  
\- which brings forth an irritating line from some Rihanna song he heard on the radio once, and _great_ , now the chorus is stuck on repeat in his head and this is just _the best day ever_.  
  
Christ.  
  
The case had been simple enough, an open and close typical ‘psycho ex-boyfriend goes on a random fit of jealous rage’, which the highly irritated and bored (which he took great joy in informing everyone) detective had solved pretty much instantly, meaning a wasted trip to the depths of nowhere. But there were children involved, and John couldn’t help but feel the emotional stab of empathy, no matter how much experience he’s had with terror and war, and _Sherlock_ \- well, he had been his usual cold arse self and made some comment or other (that John has now forgotten, actually) that made him want to throw the nearest piece of mountain at his _big intelligent_ _head_.  
  
Now John’s so pent up even the sodding _rain_ is making him angry, definitely a bad sign because he usually quite enjoys the slow thrum or fast staccato of water on surface. To top it all off, the car seems to be slowing down a fair bit, crawling almost to a halt. John turns his head forwards and finds that, _yep_ , the fog has become so plush and cottony that even Sherlock Holmes can’t see through it.  
  
Magnificent.  
  
“It would be perilous and idiotic to continue. We’ll have to wait until it clears.” The driver states, giving the steering wheel one last frustration fueled squeeze before letting go, tipping his neck back, his curls almost as dark as the leather of the head rest.  
  
John rolls his lips together a few times before turning to him, in some weak attempt to quell his annoyance.  
  
“Fine. Good. _Great_.” He says tightly, pursing his lips as he looks upon Sherlock’s sharply wound face, which then twists a little to stare right back.  
  
“Hardly my fault, if that’s what you’re implying. I know you regard me as some kind of magical genius, John, but I cannot _in fact_ control the weather.”  
  
Having the patience of an _actual_ Saint, John simply folds his arms tighter until they strain slightly against his shirt and prays to every kind of God that the heavens suddenly clear, and he can get the hell out of here, and away from a situation where he has to share a fairly enclosed space with a man he wants to kick _violently_ in the shin.  
  
Several moments of an unusually uncomfortable silence passes before Sherlock obviously decides he’s bored, and pushes open the driver door.  
  
“What the f-“  
  
But John’s obscenity gets cut off rudely by the sound of torrential rain hammering outside, and the threatening creak of the open door as it strains against its hinges, Sherlock disappearing through it in a dramatic gust of wind and coat tails.  
  
John watches him circle to the front of the vehicle for all of ten seconds before the man gets swallowed by the fog. Despite himself - despite his angry disposition and the _extremely tiny_ part of him that wishes the vanishing act to be Sherlock’s final party trick - John _panics_. Because, hell, it’s quite terrifying out there; with the howling wind raging against the Rover, strong enough to make it ache a fraction with the effort of keeping four wheels on the ground, and the rain basically bucketing it down in every single direction.  
  
He swears internally, this time, before turning up the collar of his cotton shirt and pushing his own door open.  
  
The weather actually is a bit frightening, and John can barely see anything in front of him minus his own outstretched hand. With a throat full of wind, he attempts to call out Sherlock’s name, but it’s consumed by the roar of the tormented landscape, rioting around him. Now there’s some genuine pure terror, because he can’t hear or see or even _sense_ Sherlock, when he can usually feel the man staring at him from a mile away.  
  
And oh, bugger, now he’s lost the car too, moments ago only a finger stretch away, now lost to the atmosphere.  
  
In his infinite wisdom, John decides the best thing to do is stay still. If he attempts to find the car or Sherlock he’ll definitely end up getting lost or falling down some rock littered hill and, again, he doesn’t much fancy dying just yet. So, he waits. Balances himself with his feet spread and his arms swaying in mid-air, which would be comical if the situation wasn’t so dire.  
  
(Rihanna blazes away in his head.)  
  
In some kind of hypnotic rain soaked stupor, John’s actually getting quite used to being battered brutally by the elements. For God knows how long, he closes his eyes against it all and simply stands there, fighting gravity and the force of heavy air against his muscles.  
  
Then, a hand gently comes to rest on his hip from behind, and he nearly, _almost_ , jumps out of his bloody skin.  
  
The specific kind of musty heat and smell of pure arrogance filling the breathing space around John, tells him instantly that it’s Sherlock. He attempts to engage him in conversation along the lines of ‘ _what the hell do you think you’re doing you great big annoying arse, you could have fallen or died or some other unthinkable thing’_ but of course, it all gets swallowed by the fat drops of ice rain slicing his face, so he gives up.  
  
Sherlock isn’t speaking, either. Which is good, John feels less murderous when he’s silent.  
  
Another hand, which should be freezing cold but is oddly _fire hot,_ sneaks to where his left arm is still outstretched and tugs at the fabric of his sleeve. Pulls until John’s arm falls to his side with a slight _click_ of his joints. The fingers of said hand curl around his wrist, and he suddenly feels a million times more trapped than he had a few seconds ago, alone and bruised in the burgeoning weather.  
  
There’s a deafening roar in his ears but John still catches the sigh of Sherlock’s breath against the nape of his neck. He wants to turn and see and check this is _actually_ happening, confirm he’s not died accidentally without realising it, and is having some post-deceased hallucination. But that means straining against the wind and besides, he would probably lose this quite reassuring pressure of a large hand tugging at his hip.  
  
Tugging him _where_ , John doesn’t know. All he knows is the flat of Sherlock’s chest against his back, cotton to cotton, soaked and humming with rain frictioned warmth. Then, both hands disappear and Sherlock’s arms surround him, complete with coat, so that he becomes enveloped in lush expensive wool.  
  
John tenses for a moment because, _if he’s honest_ , this is the closest he’s been to another body for a good few torturous months. The heat radiating from Sherlock’s muscles is enticing though, especially seen as John can’t feel his face right now (can he ever?), and he finds himself tugging at the lapels of the coat to draw them tighter together.  
  
They’re so close it actually hurts. John isn’t stupid and neither is Sherlock, obviously, and there’s been a great deal of line crossing tension between them ever since the whole thing at the swimming pool.  
  
“People might talk”  
  
John tries to say, confronted a little by the racket around them, but Sherlock seems to hear.  Actually, John can near enough _feel_ the bitterness of the smirk pressed into his hair. The strength of the man’s lean body practically moulding into his own is heavy on his tongue, divine in the creases of his teeth. John wonders vaguely when he began to think of Sherlock in terms of taste, pushes it to one side to discuss _never_.  
  
There’s a whole ocean of things John Watson will not do, a whole tidal wave of _not in hells chance_.  
  
This, though, isn’t one of them.  
  
He used to think it was, before Sherlock. Before _this_ ; the man’s annoyingly agile limbs somehow slipping out of the confines of his coat sleeves, coming to whisper delicately on either side of John’s ribs and tightening on just the right spot between bone and muscle.  
  
John simply tugs at the lapels of Sherlock’s coat a tad more insistently, until his knuckles turn white and his mind turns blank and wanton against the turmoil.  
  
The breath against his neck suddenly morphs into lips, rough and uncontrolled - the thought alone makes him shudder more than the spiking cold, that Sherlock is losing his grip, losing _himself_ all over his skin.  
  
Even if he wanted to, John cannot move. He’s too focused on the contrast of warm hands against sodden sticking cotton, too consumed by the pads of Sherlock’s fingertips, swiftly making their way under the hem of his shirt and striking bare gold. John does swear then, open and loud into the fog and who gives a fuck really, because Sherlock is _touching him._  
  
God, he’s touching him and it feels like everything that’s _ever_ been missing.  
  
A scrape of teeth against the juncture between John’s neck and shoulder makes him groan into the wind, and he finds himself with the burning desire to be owned by Sherlock, to be marked by him for everyone else to see.  
  
John’s knees buck slightly at his own _dirty_ thoughts, and it takes all his will to remain standing as Sherlock traces the lines of his chest, the dips and tracks of his muscles, with his seeking searching fingernails. He’s saying something low and throbbing, but John catches none of it through the roar of his own burning skin. Everything else disappears, as Sherlock makes quick work of John’s jeans and pushes a hand rough into his boxers.  
  
Words are stabbing through the unrelenting weather now, and Sherlock is forcing them into the shell of his ear, carving them into him.  
  
As Sherlock’s hand wraps around him he hears - _want you, right now, perfect, John_ \- and he hates him for doing this now, when John can’t move or see Sherlock’s lust filled eyes (oh, _Jesus_ ) but it’s kind of right, that they should collide in the middle of storm.  
  
It’s been a while, and John can’t hold on much longer. The mere thought that it’s Sherlock’s hand moving fast around him - the fact that he _knows_ that hand, can relay each scar and burn and where it came from - is more than enough to tip him over and drown him.  
  
The landscape burns bright behind his eyelids for a few moments while he simply breathes, while he takes in the lingering friction on his flesh and the faint drag of lips still on his neck.  
  
Sherlock shivers. The sharp jolt that rolls through his body vibrates against John’s back - and he knows then that any chance he has of forgetting this is gone. There’s no way, no _ghost_ of a chance. Because he’s had a small taster of Sherlock’s impossibly hot touch, felt a minute percentage of his control being stripped away simply by placing hands on John and it’s _beautiful_. A crescendo of things he can’t quite understand.  
  
Around them, the weather is easing. The fog is retreating into mist, memories of the wind and rain tumble down from the clouds and an odd sense of quiet pushes over them.  
  
He isn’t quite sure how long they’ve been stood there for before Sherlock moves. The cocoon of his coat disappears and leaves an acre of space around John. There’s still a wetness on the nape of his neck that has nothing to do with the rain. Still a plateau of goosebumps that has nothing do with the cold.  
  
It’s true, forgetting is not an option. John can already feel it shaping a hole in his chest.  
  
Sherlock’s hands are back to gripping the steering wheel, the heat of John’s skin still on them. They ride back in near silence, but it’s infinitely more comfortable than before.  
  
John remembers that they are lost, and they will be for a while, yet.


	2. catalyst

Things have been weird.

John would like to believe that it all started a week ago; when they got stuck in a storm in the middle of nowhere, being lashed by wind and rain, and Sherlock had decided to unceremoniously shove a hot hand into his jeans and _work_ him into oblivion.

In all honesty though, it pre-dates even _that_ little incident. Actually, John has trouble remembering a time when things had been normal - or, at least, _their_ definition of normal - and Sherlock pressing teeth to his neck was just a catalyst, speeding up the final explosion.

For the last few weeks since said event, their day to day lives have become an intricate and carefully executed routine - being overly civil, spending large amounts of time sitting in silence waiting for the doorbell and pretty much avoiding each other altogether. There’s a couple of times when Sherlock comes back to the flat with blood on him or (more worryingly) smelling like sour milk, and John doesn’t ask questions. There’s a distinct lack of non-laughable cases and it’s even more irritating than the odd aura surrounding them both. It feels like they’re living in a kind of strange bubble of _lies_ that both of them refuse to burst. John gets a couple of days of solace on a slightly interesting case, but even via webcam it’s all a bit _static_.

John’s beginning to wonder if it will ever stop, or if he even _wants_ it to.

Perhaps the worst part, though, is the lingering imprint of Sherlock; clinging to him like some unwelcome poltergeist. The ghostly memory of him forces John’s hand to wrap shamefully around himself in the dead of night, in the morning, in the afternoon, (every time it bloody _rains_ , which is more than a little inconvenient). His go to collection of mental pornographic material has dwindled somewhat; curvaceous _lovely_ women replaced with the strong stark tendons of Sherlock’s fingers.

And now each time the man is a complete arse, John doesn’t want to _smack_ the smirk off his face - he wants to _bite_ it.

Bit of a problem, really.

//

Buckingham Palace is _big_.

John knew that beforehand, obviously, having driven by it a million times and even (once) done the whole tourist thing. But walking around it - staring up at the ceiling with his mouth slightly agape in the least subtle manner possible - John feels smaller than he ever has.

His expression only becomes _more_ theatrical as he spots Sherlock; poised and perfectly calm, wearing only a sheet.

Just. Sodding _fabulous_.

John perches himself next to the scantily clad detective and realises, suddenly, that this is the closest they’ve been in proximity to each other for three weeks. Not a good moment for such a dawning. He peers over with the intention of marvelling at the shining crystal ash tray, but instead his eyes divert to Sherlock’s lap. It’s only a quick glance but it’s more than enough to make his blood rush, the shadow of what lies beneath is startlingly obvious.

“Are you wearing any pants?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

The air almost swells for a moment, with nearly a month’s worth of pent up friction. Then, they laugh.

Actually, they giggle like school kids until John’s on the verge of hyperventilating, and everything immediately feels _better_. He can feel the space between them shift; the weight unbalanced again in constant motion, instead of frustratingly level. The depths of Sherlock’s throaty laugh rattle through him, and he relishes each vibration. John thinks, as he sips his tea from Palace china, that things might be okay now.

Until Mycroft hands the case file over and -

“Sex doesn’t _alarm_ me.”

John fights the urge to raise his hand in concordance, feeling every tiny hair on his body rise in unison, betraying evidence.  Next to him, he senses every muscle in Sherlock’s face go taut and John just wants to leave, _leave right now_.

Just as the chance presents itself, the brother decides it’s a marvellous idea to step on Sherlock’s sheet cape, revealing a mountainous vision of shoulder and back and _arse._ John hopes Mycroft can’t read minds, too.

Oh, _thank god_ there’s a stolen ash tray to keep them occupied, because John’s blood is beating a heavy booming rhythm in his veins that drums _Sherlock_. Loud and dangerous.

He’s sure that even the cabbie can hear it.

//  
  
  
The walls of Baker Street seem to be slowly, inevitably, closing in on him.  
  
All he can think of, as he settles precariously in his armchair after the torturous taxi ride, is ivory white against Sherlock’s even snowier skin, acres upon acres of taught muscle.  
  
(It doesn’t help that he’d also glanced at the case photos, and his tyrant mind continues to conjure up images of Sherlock, _helpless_ , losing that control that he so beautifully keeps.)  
  
In the background, John hears the man moving around the kitchen, likely inspecting his latest experiments in saliva consistency.  
  
The weirdness is back and John feels tense and _wired_ and can see rain clouds looming outside. There’s a dull throbbing sound cocooning his brain, pushing against tender pressure points and _it’s just all too much_.  
  
“Sherlock-“ He begins, but doesn’t quite know how to continue, doesn’t have to.  
  
“Are we really going to have this conversation, John? So far, we’ve been doing a fairly successful job of ignoring it, and I’d quite like to carry on with that, if it’s all the same to you.”  
  
John turns to see him delicately holding a petri dish a centimetre away from his nose, sounding as if he’s simply asking him to fetch some milk. Sherlock continues to prod at his disgusting collection, seemingly unfazed by the whole situation. John grinds his teeth and flexes his jaw several times, before turning his head back to stare at the gradually darkening sky.  
  
“No it’s not the same to me, actually.” And his reply gets lost in a low rumble of thunder that rolls through the clouds outside. The skies flash white for a blink of a second.  
  
He counts - _One, two, three, four_ \- it’s closing in, quick, as if it’s been _waiting_ for them, patiently collecting electric.  
  
As the third fork of lightening scratches London’s skies, John’s fists tighten and he pushes himself sharply out of his chair.  
  
“We _need_ to talk about this” He starts, moving to stand, arms crossed and legs steady, in the space between kitchen lab and living room.  
  
“Pretty certain we don’t.” Comes the sing song reply, and Sherlock’s paying more attention to the content of some murderer’s mouth than John’s growing anger.  
  
“I want an explanation, Sherlock, you can’t - you shouldn’t _do_ that to someone and just - I need to know what _this is_."  
  
The air is rattling around him, the tug of his temper is piquing and breaking with each forced breath. Rain begins to litter the streets outside and John thinks of wool; thinks of fingernails painting his skin and the betraying embossment of teeth on his shoulder that had lasted a whole week (not long enough). Fuck, he’s going _insane_ and Sherlock’s just _standing_ there, ignoring him - being the cold faced genius, not the owner of the hands that had ravenously discovered every path of John’s naked and sodden chest only weeks ago.  
  
 _Okay_ , he’s had enough now.  
  
John moves as the weather draws in like it’s mocking them, circles to where Sherlock is still studying his stupid dish and _smacks_ it out of his hand. The sound of it clattering against the lino is the most satisfying thing ever.  
  
Ah, _finally_ , some kind of reaction - the pupils of Sherlock’s eyes darken tenfold, and John’s close enough, (without meaning to be), to watch them expand into black holes. He’s seen anger in the man before and this isn’t what it looks like.  
  
Seems more _accomplished._  
  
But John doesn’t give himself chance to find out; shoves him hard by the shoulders against the flat of the fridge, which creaks threateningly with the impact.  
  
“Ah, the soldier makes his appearance.” Sherlock drags his eyes from the floor all the way up John’s body, taking him in.  
  
And it’s the man _behind_ the soldier that doesn’t hit him, that instead just keeps a firm grip on his shoulders, hard enough to bruise ( _you will remember this_ ).  
  
“You can push me all you want, John, I’m not -“  
  
With almost a growl, John cuts him off, with a press of his knee rough between Sherlock’s thighs. John feels very far away from himself, floating above the scene in some sort of out of body experience, as he angles his mouth against Sherlock’s ear.  
  
“You’ll do whatever I damn well _tell_ you to do.”  
  
There’s that jolt, again. It shakes through Sherlock’s limbs and right into John’s, and the trapped genius lets out a breath against his face that could almost be a laugh of disbelief, except it’s more _needy_ \- more like a challenge.  
  
God knows, John’s a competitive man.  
  
Hard, he presses their mouths together like he is _made_ to; his lips are fleshed out for Sherlock’s, his taste buds are tuned in to the bittersweet of Sherlock’s tongue and each breath between is _stolen_ , only out of necessity. All he hears is roaring wind in the tunnels of his ears.  
  
He’s pretty glad for once, that Sherlock has the ability to read his thoughts as if they are carved into his forehead - his thighs part further to allow John’s frame to fit tight against him, bites at the shadow where his teeth were weeks ago as John makes quick work of his shirt buttons.  
  
Yeah, it’s bad. It’s wrong, it’s awful, it’s _definitely not_ what they should be doing. Sherlock’s too volatile and John’s too loyal, they’ll break each other - except, right now John _wants_ to be broken, he wants to fall apart and have Sherlock rearrange him however he sees fit.  
  
John just wants what is rightfully his really, because _Christ_ , he’s earned it.  
  
As much as the whole situation makes his head rage and his stomach ache, as much as he doesn’t know _what_ the hell is going on and _where_ the hell Sherlock learned to breathe like that - John loves this, the fire and the _burn_ that comes with it, needs it on some fundamental _chemical_ level that he’s never really thought about before.  
  
Said chemicals are running riot. John can’t quite remember getting on his knees - recalls pushing soft cotton off Sherlock’s toned shoulders, holding his wrists tight against the fridge, sucking on the sharps of his collar bone and tearing his way down a sculpted expanse of white skin, then a low moan, and ah, maybe _that’s_ the reason he can feel cold lino through the fabric of his trousers.  
  
His fingers work almost separate from himself, pulling open Sherlock’s button and zip, tugging all quick and impatiently until he’s faced with something new and strangely unexpected.  
  
Despite popular belief, John’s never been with a man. For some reason, that thought has only just crossed his acutely aroused brain - Sherlock is _actually_ a bloke, cock and all.  
  
Fuck it, he’s here now.  
  
No reversing. John has some innate need to prove himself, show Sherlock that he’s not the only one that can be cruel, that can be unpredictable and _immoral_. Couldn’t back out even if he tried, because all his mouth wants to do it take Sherlock in, taste every single dirty bit of him.  
  
So, that’s what he does; parts his lips and lets Sherlock slide easily between them, flicks his tongue out and gets warmth, heavy and absinthal. There’s no rhythm or real direction, but Sherlock is moaning.  
  
Sherlock is _moaning_ _his name_ and it’s the greatest thing John’s ever heard, or will _ever_ hear.  
  
He takes that as encouragement, is too absorbed by the delectable sounds reverberating from Sherlock’s mouth, such intricate oscillations, that he forgets he has no clue what he’s doing.  
  
Then Sherlock moves a large hand to the back of his head and groans ‘ _fuck’ -_ and it’s such a rare treat that John has to grip the man’s thighs tight, dig his nails in to stop himself from crumbling. The combination of _sound touch taste smell_ is so unstable and intense that it’s borderline dangerous, and the scent of London rain drifting through the open window is just _too perfect_.  
  
But John’s lips are beginning to go tingly and he remembers he actually _doesn’t_ know what he’s doing, (he actually shouldn’t be here), _he actually needs to tear Sherlock apart_.  
  
John moves his mouth and pushes up off his knees and sees space in Sherlock’s eyes.  
  
There’s something very complicated and revolutionary smothered across the man’s face - which wouldn’t usually surprise him, except for once he can read it; _things are changing, I think I need you, take me._ And that frightens John more than the lingering bitter of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth. Scares him more than the truly _bad_ things he wants to do to him.  
  
Because that makes it _real_. Everything so far - it’s now true and _naked_ in Sherlock’s eyes.  
  
John falters with his fingertips grazing Sherlock’s ribs. He can’t help it, this moment of tentativeness amid torrential chaos. Their thoughts sync for a few seconds - _how did we get here?_ \- and John would relish the extraordinary doubt creasing Sherlock’s forehead, had it not been aimed his way. He wants to tell him _it’s your fault_ , wants to shake him until he acknowledges the memory of water stained pores and the hairs at the small of his neck.  
  
Sherlock isn’t a sentimental man and John knows this very, very well. But the quiet, ethereal press of lips to his philtrum, then to the dip of his chin, screams _conviction._  
  
“John.” He breathes, as if confirming his existence.  
  
Something transforms then; moves, turns and alters the perception of everything that has gone, everything that will come to be.  
  
They kiss, and Sherlock leads him by the wrist to the kitchen table. Something in the way he carelessly sweeps away the month long experiments off the surface makes John’s wrists tingle, being pushed against the edge of it makes his blood thrum with anticipation.  
  
And this is more like it; this is uncontrolled, wild, and violent as the weather aching at the windows. They both crave control, and both simultaneously want to lose it.  
  
There’s a sweet sour still sitting heavy in the creases of John’s mouth, and he wonders if Sherlock can taste himself as he pushes a desperate tongue past his lips. Those glorious fingers make light work of his clothing; the air in Baker Street is static with tight energy and it hits his chest like the skin of a drum, sharp. John lets his neck fall back and watches Sherlock through hooded eyes, the muscles in his arms move and the tendons jump and weave as the man roughly disposes of his trousers, ruthlessly strips him to the flesh.  
  
A faint echo of Rihanna whispers in his head as Sherlock moves the palm of his hand, so slow that John can feel the sweat collecting in the creases of it, along the length of his cock.  
  
“The storm, John,” Sherlock exhales, watching his own hand with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “I need _us_ to be that way.”  
  
(Storm: lashing cruel rain, burning ice on his skin, the last tendrils of warmth and solidity leaving him and John had felt _celestial_ ; intangible, as if nothing but the firm of a chest against his back had mattered, could have been swallowed by it and captured by the exquisite dark of Sherlock’s breathing until he was nothing more but _dust_ , and not have cared.)  
  
John doesn’t answer because he doesn’t need to - he knows Sherlock can already see it plain in his eyes and hear it in his loud pulse and feel the _ache_ of it beneath his hand.  
  
They’ve always been this way, a tempestuous _mess_ , ever since the bullet left his Browning and shattered through the chest of a murderous cabbie. Who is John to argue with that?  
  
The second Sherlock meets his eyes he feels the tug like gravity and is pulling him by the ribs, shifting and pushing, until the man has the backs of his thighs against the table and John puts pressure just _there_ with his knee to make Sherlock fall flat on his back.  
  
It really is a filthy sight. Because of course Sherlock’s all sharp and defined and _unfairly_ pale, John feathers the pads of his fingers across faded roots of scars, has the yearning desire to replace them with marks of his own. Treacle curls splay across the flat of the table, a soft contrast to the angles of his body.  
  
John lifts his eyes to the ceiling and swears under his breath, licks his bottom lip, and leans over him.  
  
Thunder growls outside and fills the room, Sherlock’s groan is a few octaves deeper than it, and it settles quietly in the pit of John’s stomach. They meet and press and grind into each other, each snap of Sherlock’s hips upwards hits John’s cock beautifully, sends brutal sparks of friction along the line of his spine, rolling the length of his body. Sherlock is as unforgiving with his hands as he is with his words; scratching and digging into the skin of John’s biceps, his neck, his stomach and briefly his _face_ , as if he’s trying to tear the very flesh from his bones. And John can’t really do a lot except keep moving, keep using his teeth to smother those scars, his lips are burning with friction and it feels _easy_.  
  
There’s not enough rhythm, though, and with a frustrated groan John pushes himself up to stand, grabs Sherlock quick by the hips, and pulls him forwards with his back still flat against the table. The man doesn’t protest though, simply hooks his legs as far under the edge of it as he can, until their cocks brush torturously together.  
  
Then Sherlock props himself up on one elbow, circles a large, ( _god so intelligent_ ) hand around them both and moves, fast and tight. John digs his nails into Sherlock’s thighs and watches as his lean back arches, as those smart lips part with the sound of a breaking man.  
  
They’re still as lost as they were in the valleys of the Peak District, a month ago. But the difference now, John realises, is that they both _need_ to be. They need this mess, it’s their life, they feed off it and there’s a lingering _apocalyptic_ doubt that they won’t have it for much longer.  
  
Something terrifying is coming. John can feel it needling in the crevices of his mind.  It’s been there since the swimming pool and he knows it’s _bad_ , there’s a horrible, weighty feeling that he’s close to being torn apart. It’s clear in both of them every time their eyes meet, in the way Sherlock is touching him as if he’s fading away.  
  
The skies know it, too.  
  
This time when John comes, the weather doesn’t break. The clouds continue to groan and cry out in anguish, the rain strikes with more intensity and purpose. Sherlock is trembling beneath him, exhausted and debauched, and looking as if one weight has been lifted only to be replaced by another.  
  
Neither of them mention it; not as John gives a hand to Sherlock to pull him off the table, not as they stand naked in front of each other and Sherlock rests the span of his hand against John’s heart, not as they both wordlessly migrate to Sherlock’s bed and lie chest to chest, breathing as the atmosphere constricts.  
  
Not even in the dead of early morning, as John wedges his head beneath a sharp chin and Sherlock presses his nose into the crown of his hair. Sherlock whispers -  
  
“Don’t leave me.”  
  
And John allows himself a kiss to man’s throat before he shifts to look at him. There’s more doubt again, something that doesn’t belong in his eyes. Sherlock knows he wouldn’t leave, and John wonders if there’s something he doesn’t know. If there’s something Sherlock is hiding from him. In fact, he’s been certain for a while that there is.  
  
“Don’t give me reason to, then.”  
  
Sherlock blinks and runs a thumb from the bridge of John’s nose to his lips. He cradles a hand around John’s lower back and taps a patterned beat against his skin.  
  
But he does not say -

 _I won’t_.


End file.
